pink and there was not a hair on her body, not even on her head â she was bald â and you could unfold her to full length to include her legs and feet. She had breasts that you could open like doors in an advent calendar and showed what was concealed under the skin, her guts and her veins. Her flesh was as red as raw steak. I unfolded her stomach â it was just like opening the 24th December â and opened her up layer by layer and gazed at liver, intestines, heart. It was scary, and I quickly put the book back on the shelf â my conscience black as pitch â and could hardly wait until next time.
This gave me a taste for reading and I started going to the library in Nykøbing â a chalk-white building with a wide stairway. It was the most peaceful place on earth, it was on Rosenvænget and I left the town, the other children, everything behind me when I stepped in through the door. I ploughed my way through the rows of books in the childrenâs section and, when I had emerged at the other end and shut the last book, I was old enough to set about the real task towering above me in the lofty room â the adult library.
The shelves went on forever, and for the first couple of years I could only reach the topmost ones with the aid of a stool. I followed my inclination, consulting the card index, looking for interesting titles, hunting among thebookshelves â and, even though I fought the temptation, slowly and surely I read my way in to the dangerous books, knowing full well where to find them: the
Sengeheste
series, Soyaâs novels,
Lady Chatterley
. I did not dare take them down. Simply skimming a passage or two demanded a steady nerve, a firm grip on my hammering heart. I was terrified of being caught. At long last I gave in, hid
Hvordan, mor?
under my sweater and read its revelations on the toilet. So there I sat cultivating the forbidden knowledge whenever I could â and felt so much at home out there that I stayed for hours and fell asleep.
It was inevitable. One day I overslept and, when I emerged from the toilet, it was long past closing time. The library was empty and dark as the grave. It was locked. I couldnât get out and was grabbed by panic, my pulse hammering in my throat. I was alone, a prisoner of the dark, and whatever would Mother and Father be thinking? They would be at their witsâ end wondering where I had got to! I fumbled my way round the library as I remembered it â rows A, B, C â and my memory kept playing tricks on me, and I got more and more lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts until I no longer knew where I was. I had walked into the trap â there was no way out, for the books went on forever â so I sat down and prayed that someone would find me before it was too late. The fluorescent lights flickered and caught. And there were Mother and Father walking in with the librarian. I leapt up and rushed to them, and it was a long while before I went out to the toilet again.
Autumn had arrived. I was on my way home fromschool, walking under the bridge by the station and looking forward to the holidays. Torn pieces of paper were strewn like confetti across the pavement, shining in thousands of colours like leaves from the Garden of Eden, and I couldnât resist taking a look and peeling them off the slabs. They were easy to find because they glittered â more lay under the bushes and in the gutter â and I put them all in my school bag. When I arrived home, something stopped me in my tracks, and instead I turned my bike and rode out to Vesterskoven where, with the rooks screaming from the treetops, I dug a hole and buried the fragments of paper to save them for later.
It was an age before I could get down from the table and say âthank you for the foodâ and ride back to the wood. I dug up the pieces of paper and then I put two and two together in pairs and started to assemble the jigsaw puzzle with a small
This gave me a taste for reading and I started going to the library in Nykøbing â a chalk-white building with a wide stairway. It was the most peaceful place on earth, it was on Rosenvænget and I left the town, the other children, everything behind me when I stepped in through the door. I ploughed my way through the rows of books in the childrenâs section and, when I had emerged at the other end and shut the last book, I was old enough to set about the real task towering above me in the lofty room â the adult library.
The shelves went on forever, and for the first couple of years I could only reach the topmost ones with the aid of a stool. I followed my inclination, consulting the card index, looking for interesting titles, hunting among thebookshelves â and, even though I fought the temptation, slowly and surely I read my way in to the dangerous books, knowing full well where to find them: the
Sengeheste
series, Soyaâs novels,
Lady Chatterley
. I did not dare take them down. Simply skimming a passage or two demanded a steady nerve, a firm grip on my hammering heart. I was terrified of being caught. At long last I gave in, hid
Hvordan, mor?
under my sweater and read its revelations on the toilet. So there I sat cultivating the forbidden knowledge whenever I could â and felt so much at home out there that I stayed for hours and fell asleep.
It was inevitable. One day I overslept and, when I emerged from the toilet, it was long past closing time. The library was empty and dark as the grave. It was locked. I couldnât get out and was grabbed by panic, my pulse hammering in my throat. I was alone, a prisoner of the dark, and whatever would Mother and Father be thinking? They would be at their witsâ end wondering where I had got to! I fumbled my way round the library as I remembered it â rows A, B, C â and my memory kept playing tricks on me, and I got more and more lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts until I no longer knew where I was. I had walked into the trap â there was no way out, for the books went on forever â so I sat down and prayed that someone would find me before it was too late. The fluorescent lights flickered and caught. And there were Mother and Father walking in with the librarian. I leapt up and rushed to them, and it was a long while before I went out to the toilet again.
Autumn had arrived. I was on my way home fromschool, walking under the bridge by the station and looking forward to the holidays. Torn pieces of paper were strewn like confetti across the pavement, shining in thousands of colours like leaves from the Garden of Eden, and I couldnât resist taking a look and peeling them off the slabs. They were easy to find because they glittered â more lay under the bushes and in the gutter â and I put them all in my school bag. When I arrived home, something stopped me in my tracks, and instead I turned my bike and rode out to Vesterskoven where, with the rooks screaming from the treetops, I dug a hole and buried the fragments of paper to save them for later.
It was an age before I could get down from the table and say âthank you for the foodâ and ride back to the wood. I dug up the pieces of paper and then I put two and two together in pairs and started to assemble the jigsaw puzzle with a small
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